When the Pack Dies
by freyinthelake
Summary: AU / If the Hound had first attacked the Brotherhood's camp before taking Arya away, and a certain unfortunate someone fell victim to his sword. (Warning: major character death.)


Arya had swiftly grown to hate rain. Ever since Winterfell had been reduced to ashes in her memory, rain reminded her too much of home. It hurt to think of its stone walls and the heart tree and the woods she used to love so much. Besides, Ned and Gendry had been complaining enough about the wet to make the very thought of rain disgusting to her. Ned_had_ turned out to be a highborn, like her, but the more Arya thought about that, the less he had to do with her aversion to the wetness that refused to stop falling.

Then there was the fire. That stupid fire that Thoros was always and forever staring into. If he was always gazing into its depths to see things that were going to happen, he'd be useless in the present where things were actually happening. He did nothing for her mood when he suddenly saw shapes and figments that applied to her. Everyone was turning against her, it seemed. Bells and fires and other highborns and people who hated highborns. They all might as well hate her too.

It was a shame her intended escape had failed earlier, halted by a calling Harwin. Harwin though…..Harwin was good to her. Arya had barely voiced her confusion about the her late father's business with Daynes at Starfall when he set it to rest. She would have been sorry to leave _him_. But he wasn't the Brotherhood.

Her last straw was broken when an acorn of the past attempted to air its roots again. Arya had had enough now - not one more word could she, or would she, hear about going places she had no intention of going to. The sky still poured rain, but anywhere was better than with people who looked at her like a miserable parcel to be shipped wherever they pleased. Arya simply stood, letting the rain soak her. Squeezing her eyes shut, the pup imagined herself back home. The steel from the forge was ringing, direwolves barked here and there while she could almost feel Nymeria around her ankles. A light laugh flew from a nearby window - it had to be Sansa. A heavier, but almost jolly laugh came from elsewhere, accompanied by a pleased sounding voice talking very quickly; her mother and father, Arya thought with a smile. She noticed the ringing of the steel had gotten louder, and voices had begun to join with them. Angry sorts of voices….. A frown graced Arya's dark features, and a few long seconds later, she opened her eyes in a panic.

The angry voices had turned to terrified voices - pained voices. Then there was a yell and more clashing of steel against steel. all coming from the camp she'd so readily set her back to. Every clang was ugly; a fight was taking place, and she was torn. Her mind was split between declaring she didn't _care_ a_ thing_ for anyone back there, but at the same time, as much as she didn't want to admit it… Harwin. Hot Pie. Gendry. _Harwin_. Thoros. Tom. _Gendry_.

Hang it all - she had to get back.

Running as fast as her short legs would take her, she arrived at the fire just as the battle was coming to a close. Strange thing was, everyone had either run and hid or was on the ground clutching a wound - or tending to those wounds in what shadows they could find. At the center of the carnage was a looming, aggressive figure that Arya had prayed so many times would be dead in a ditch where he belonged. The Hound. Right and left, his long sword swung and hacked and cut, finishing his fight. She had no idea where to look or turn until a soft groan drifted up from the ground. It was far away - across the fire circle - but in a moment she ran across to the sound. The only prone form she was interested in.

"Gendry?!" Her voiced cracked far too much for her liking, but there was no time to dwell on it. Gendry was lying on his back by a slowly widening puddle of dark red. The Hound had cut him on his side and driven his sword in between the blacksmith's ribs. Murderous, black anger swirled with red fear that her mantra did nothing to quell. This time, swords had cut much deeper than fear ever could. "Gendry, Gendry look at me! Stupid just look at me - what did he do to you?" It was a silly question that she could answer easily enough, but she babbled nonsense in order to get him to talk. "I_heard_ you say something stupid, please, please say something!"

Placing one small hand under Gendry's neck and one across his shoulders, Arya pulled with all her strength, trying to rest her friend across her knees. Finally, she'd fought with his and her weak bodies enough to get him how she wanted. Then he started to cough. His eyes had been wandering and she could have sworn his lips were moving while she was yelling at him, but this was the first noise he'd managed to make since then. Arya stilled and looked at him so intensely his eyes widened.

"S'alright, m'lady." She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. "He's got a good sword on 'im, he does. Slashed me to bits," Gendry half laughed, but more coughs cut him off, and Arya sternly reproved him with a look. "Shut up stupid, you're going to hurt yourself more." He looked so pale and fragile - something she hadn't seen in his face before. Fragile, and _quiet_. Never before had she seen a truly quiet look on Gendry's face. It alarmed her, and she began to shake his shoulders. "No Gendry, keep talking. Just don't hurt yourself, but keep talking!" She was becoming angry now, at everything. At the world, at the gods, at Gendry for not talking and looking like he was dying, and the heavy boot thumps that came up behind her. A large fist suddenly grabbed the cloth at her neck, but she turned as fast as lightning and pummeled the arm attached to the fist.

"**NO!**" She screamed. "YOU LEAVE ME ALONE! Get **away**! This is all your _FAULT_!" The Hound must have known she'd protest, but not like this. Swiftly withdrawing his arm and backing up a few steps, he stared at her with bemused wonder. He made no move forward, but stayed standing there. Arya glared daggers at him so fiercely that he averted his gaze away, choosing instead to sit on a log by the fire and clean his dirty sword. Dirty with the blood of her friends. Arya swiftly turned back to the boy lying in her lap. He'd gotten paler, but when she looked into his eyes, he shifted. "M'sorry, Arya," was all he said.

Then she truly lost all composure that she had left.

"No, you're _not_ going to say that to me. You're not leaving me. Everyone else leaves me. You can't! You were different!" She bit the other side of her lip, blanching at her secret that was never meant to be told. But he didn't make fun of her. Gendry just smiled instead. "So were you, m'lady." Then the piercing blue of his eyes grew whiter, and his eyelids fluttered so slowly that Arya didn't even realize what was happening until they closed for good.

"Gendry…" Her voice faded way into nothing, then climbed to a crescendo. "NO! No, you stupid, bullheaded bastard boy, wake UP!" The wild, mad wolf pup pounded the wet ground with her fists until the earth gave way to dents. Arya Stark was infuriated, terrified, alone, lonely, despairing, frustrated…..and weeping. There was no rain now, only her tears. She cried like she'd never cried before, and she didn't care who was watching. Her dead friend was nearly falling off her knees now, so she pushed him off and laid him back onto the dirt. A moment or two she swayed back and forth from grief, but ended up falling on Gendry's silent chest, crying and yelling how she hated him and hated him and maybe loved him and thought he was an idiot and wanted him to come back to her. All of her ranting was spilled into a quiet rib-cage that gave her no answers, no matter what measures she used. Arya might have even pressed her mouth to his in a frenzied attempted to bring life and air back into the boy's lungs, and possibly more than once, but it yielded her no results, just like everything else. Arya had no idea how long her incoherent and nonsense words tumbled on, but they flowed like a river until she blacked out from weariness and grief.

The Hound had been watching her the whole time. As much as he wanted to, he refrained from making a sound and left the wolf pup to lay out her rage. It would do him no good to try and collect her when she was in such a tempestuous state. He wasn't keen on having his arm beaten like a hide again, and so he waited by the dying fire until all of her energy left her. Carrying her to his horse, still hidden behind the stable, he propped her in his saddle and mounted after he'd gotten her situated. Then they rode.

The morning brought pale sunlight, but no clouds. Arya awoke to the steady rhythm of a horse's gate, and she turned her head to see the silent, emotionless Hound behind her, keeping her upright. Looking down at her lap and up again, she faced the oncoming road, letting numbness take over.


End file.
